The Price of Valor
by cryptically
Summary: [post DMC, AWE spoilers eventually] In an effort to regain his honour, Norrington makes a deal for a ship, but not just any ship. How far will he go to restore what he's lost? [2nd Chapter up!]
1. A Eulogy of Hope and Despair

Dear Readers,

I've been wanting to write this ever since I saw the second movie. What you see before you is the prologue: feel free to skip over it once I add chapters, but be forewarned as you'll probably miss important foreshadowing.

This is to set the scene and to start the majour Norrington-centric plot going. (yay!) Here, the story is told carried by two characters who interact with Norrington before Chapter 1 takes place: Lord Beckett and Tia Dalma. Each section of the prologue (collectively known as the "Eulogy of Hope and Despair") is written by a different person, e.g. Beckett' s POV is in Despair, Tia in Hope. Norrington also makes a few appearances in here.

Tell me what you think-- I love getting feedback!

--cy.

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.eulogy of _despair_.  
Lord Cutler Beckett

I have never been one for lengthy introductions. Much as I should like to revel in the excesses of my victory, I cannot: recent events have thrust upon me a most pleasant task to attend to. Mercer has already been dispatched to the docks as I ordered, the wheels of a greater scheme are starting to churn into movement.

Inspection of the map on my wall proved to further my enthusiasm. My fingers left ghost-trails around the Isla de Muerta, the Isla Cruces, then islands for which there were no names recorded. To think that after so many failed attempts I held the keys to the kingdom, that I was now the sole master of an endless expanse of sea; it quite boggled the mind.

And to think this happened only an hour before; I am richer now, sipping tea in my office in an insignificant port town, than the wealthiest shah in Persia or most miserly lord in Britain. How very strange.

Earlier this morning, a man entered my office and, much to my disapproval, promptly proceeded to soil my carpet in boots laden with mud and entrails appearing to be from a pigsty. Most revolting and in very bad form, my dear commodore.

Despite this somewhat molted and moldy mockery of yourself, you did me a great service: procuring for my benefit the heart of one Davy Jones. Ah, what a sweet taste domination has, what triumphant flavour!

You see, my friend, every man has a price he will willing pay. It is what I have been trying to explain to them all along. I have bought out scores of people: the governor, his daughter, a blacksmith, curriers and butlers--the list is immeasurable. Does it not seem so illogical that another man might follow in their footsteps? How is it possible to blame them, when I can provide them with what they most want, save what they most cherish, all in exchange for something they hardly realize the worth of?

Yet, one affair stands out in my mind. There once was a man reduced to something less than a man, who scorned my logic and methods, preferring not to deal in "fiendish trickery and outright manipulation of the human mind".

Ah, but who is being manipulated now, my no-longer commodore? Who is begging for the life you once had, something that you would have given up quite readily for something else, more valuable to you back then?

I have spent my life learning from the faults of others so that I could avoid such mistakes. You have given me an excellent example of what I never must do. For that, perhaps I shall thank you. For all else though, I shall despise you.

You held the world in your hands and you did not know it. Or, if you did, you were too far blinded by your anger to make use of that.

I have no sympathy for you, Mr. Norrington, none whatsoever.

You have sold me the greatest weapon the ocean has to offer for a cheap repayment: restoration of yourself to a former glory, if indeed it was glory. In your hands held the power to ask of me the world, and I would gladly have given it you. Now you are privy to no thought of your own, anything you hide shall never remain hidden from me: you are property of the East India Company, and though you bear no brand to show it, you are my pawn as well.

Fair trade, as I have known it to be called, is more than often not as fair as one might wish. I have swindled others out of lesser fortunes; they at least were aware of their gamble. You, however, were aware of nothing.

So, fly. Fly away as far as you can, on the fastest ship you can, you can never escape this disgrace which has marred permanently the honour you toiled so hard to retrieve without blemish. Escape as best you are able, you shall always be drawn back to me. There are some marks that can never be erased, curses never lifted, games never won, as I am pleasantly sure you will discover.

Perhaps some day you will genuinely wish for a release; I would not doubt it. You, after all, raised the bet too high and are paying the price. Fly, my dear commodore, fly, and enjoy your brief taste of freedom: I guarantee it will be short-lived. Fate, circumstance will always drag you back here.

Standing here, gazing out my window unto the miniature ships and people, I smile to myself as a child might, confident of his superiority over his playthings. I shall watch them then, a moment more, before I begin to tug the puppet-stings on their limbs and make them dance jarringly to my tune.

Ah, I shall savour this taste. It is one of the best teas I have ever had.

----

. eulogy of _hope _.  
Tia Dalma

Nestled away in the marshes and swamps, I don't get many visitors coming to me without a purpose. Not that it's a bad thing; it just means that there is a reason for each journey, a reason perhaps the traveler might not want me to see. But I see it anyway. If I couldn't, why else would they come?

So many people have arrived at my home as of recently. The world hasn't gotten any worse: just the people living in it. It is one of the reasons I no longer venture out into the turbid seas, which though they are clear are more muddied and troubled than I have ever seen them.

I might divine what might happen next, if for my own amusement, if you hadn't walked in, dripping and exhausted. I am not surprised: the crab claws inform me that there will still be more coming to my door. Perhaps you've heard of some of them?I don't get many like you, though, those woefully ignorant of the sea and its power despite having lived on it their whole life. What could someone like you, a man who has everything, want from me, Commodore?

I can spin any story you like, cure any ailment you have, restore what has been lost... provided something is given in return. Long have I been known throughout these lands for performing miracles you could barely dream of. Trinkets and poultices crowd the walls of my home, magical rings (one is missing and I do not need to consult the oracles to know where it has gone) clutter the shelves, and various body parts of things once living hang from my rafters.

You have seen all this evidence and yet you are still skeptical, asking me what I can do for you. My dear boy, what _can't_ I do for you?

Ah, I see. You want to know the story about Davy Jones. It has become very popular. But for this you must give something in return...

You understand this well, I can tell from your eyes that you know well what you have to pay for what you wish to attain. Curious, how your face darkens so when I come to the part about his heart. But what revelation is there that am I not invited to see?

You love a woman, it's clear. And you, like Davy Jones, are considering an extreme alternative.

Perhaps I ought to tell you it is too late for that. Something, perchance Destiny, whispers to me that you won't listen: the strings of fate are already entwined around you, you have stayed too long in the tide not to resist being pulled away by it. Very well. There is something I can give you, I have it here for that, which I beneath the--no, it's not there.

And in trade, what do I want? Wait and see. I believe you know, even though you deny it.

Now, as you think that over, I shall return to searching for what I wanted to give you before. Everything ends up in this room somehow: my kitchen has its own tide of destiny, I believe. Here, this is where it must be. Remedies for love-sickness, seasickness, the last terrible assault on your digestion, distilled jealousy, bottled pride, an extra jar (perfect!), a glass ey-- aha! There.

Why the hesitation? You'll never make it out to sea if you don't have a boat, or am I mistaken? You are far too easy to read, boy, I need no charm or glamour to see what you are trying to conceal. I see you understand.

_That _is the price required of you.

It is too much? I don't think so. When you consider the-- I smile toothily and pause here, not maliciously at all --circumstances, it's a steal for someone of your rank and means, eh commodore? Something you've already lost, something you hope to be rid of, it is not so hard to trade.

There, I knew it. You are willing to part with that, no?

A throw of the claws, a touch of destiny, and the game is begun. I wonder, as the lonely boat leaves and dissolves into darkness, will you take the same path as he did overcome by pain and self-loathing, or will you journey on, too afraid to give up what you most wish to lose but is still most precious to you?

I smile and gaze out on the candle-lit water. Your story should be an interesting one, commodore. Darkness snares you, binds you, threatens to engulf you: what will you do? Look into the heart of the beast as another has done or bow down to it?

I look forward to seeing you again, should you decide to return from World's End. Perhaps I shall have another story of a broken-hearted man seeking solace to tell, perhaps I shall be told of a hero's sacrafice or, if you are unlucky, of a coward's failure. Will you, like the phoenix, rise from the ashes of your defeat? Or will you find yourself bound too closely in another pact?

Mankind is as limitless as the ocean. An eternity of paths spread out before you now, all ready for the taking. What remains now is for the adventurer to settle on one and stick with it to the end, heedless of anything but his own will. I cannot wait to hear the stories.

The choice, after all, is yours.


	2. The Turning Wind

Hey everyone!

I apologize for the lack of an update in forever, but now that the third movie's come out, I think have some idea of the direction I want to take this in. This past year was really busy, and this coming one is going to be even worse, so I'm hoping I can finish this story now. (yay for the dark side of ambition!)

When I first thought about and started writing this, I wanted to play with ideas about post-DMC events, some random plot twists, and explore character relationships, but there wasn't really an idea for the main plot. Sure, I had my characters, developments, ship captains, etc down, but I didn't know where to go as far as recovering Jack and defeating the East India Company. So I'm not changing my original story at all, I'm just using my ideas for _Valor_ to retell the third movie as I think it should have happened. Therefore, kinda obviously,** there will to be spoilers **(probably), maybe not in this chapter**, for the third movie (AWE) in here**. If you haven't seen it yet, see it!

I hope you guys like my take on it-- read on.

--cy.

* * *

_"Let us begin at the beginning. Unless you admit it to me, I cannot help you. Tell me, boy, what is it that you most want?"_

_He pauses. Perhaps he doesn't like the way she phrased the question. Perhaps he does not like his answer._

_"Honor, or so I thought. But what use--" He grips the hut's old table and shakes his head. He hasn't had the heart to put the wig back on yet, but the Admiral's stripes were too appealing to forsake for this visit. "But what use is honor to me now? What use is it to her? Everything I've done has turned wrong; the world's gone mad." A sigh. "And now I have nothing left to give."_

_She smiles and trails her index finger across her mouth. "Oh, my dear boy, that is far from the truth. The world has always been mad. You are at an advantage. Once you believe you have nothing to give, you are free to give anything without regret."_

_He starts, gazes at the table, wavering, and then makes his wish and seals his fate._

_Preparations are made, the winds lash into a grey fury. She grants his wish._

_And the storm smiles._

--------------------------

**I. The Turning Wind **

--------------------------

"Damn that sea witch and her treachery!"

Captain Hector Barbossa, leader of the expedition for the recovery of one Jack Sparrow, dug his boot into the sandy shoal. "To leave us without the _Pearl_, with nary a row boat, nor any other seaworthy craft for that matter--stranded on a god-forsaken island in the middle of the ocean, trying to sail to the end of the world--!"

"Well, it is a very nice island. And we're making progress. We're on the sea and that's closer to where we want to go than the swamp." Ragetti piped up.

Pintel echoed his support. "Yeah, captain. Look on the bright side. Jus' wait an' see."

"What'll I see? That there's no chance of rescuing Jack without a vessel? Forget your optimi..." His voice died in his throat and he stared off at the horizon before quickly delving into a pocket and fishing out his spyglass. "Arrr, methinks I spy...

"With your little eye?"

Barbossa shot Ragetti a withering look. "No, you twit."

He grinned evilly. And for a formerly dead and otherwise zombie pirate, it was quite an evil grin.

"...a boat."

Folding the telescope up, Barbossa pointed it at the incoming craft. "Steal it."

Pintel and Ragetti exchanged worried looks.

"But won't whoever's in there be angry and potentially hazardous if we steal their boat?"

Barbossa rolled his eyes. "That's why you bring along swords to subdue and dispatch them. Now get on with it!" He turned on his heel and went to watch the action unroll from atop a dune.

"You heard the man," Pintel said, unsheathing a dagger. "Subdue and dispatch. I personally am more inclined towards "dispatch," myself."

------------------------

Former-commodore and present Admiral James Norrington had had his share of hostile welcoming parties in his years at sea. Between bouts with pirates, rebel officers, and unruly tavern inhabitants, he was well-prepared to do battle, despite sailing in a run-down old dingey. It wasn't the only vessel Tia Dalma had, but she had flatly refused to lend him anything else for the voyage, considering its purpose. Far more pressing, he couldn't understand why these particular people would be attacking him. The witch hadn't informed them about his coming, had she?

"Prepare to be boarded! Yer vessel is ours!"

Ah.

He rolled his eyes. Oh, honestly. Jack Sparrow was better than this.

"Very well. Take it."

Pintel and Ragetti grinned at one another in exhilaration and dashed over to claim their prize.

"We've done it! Finally got the best of you, eh, commodore?"

"Yeah, take that!"

Norrington turned, and added almost as an afterthought:

"Be advised gentlemen, that vessel is prone to leak."

He heard their collective groan of disappointment as he trudged the rest of the way up to the beach, boots squelching in the muddy kelp. In his hand he gripped the mouth of a cloth bag tightly, holding it close.

Here they all are, the famous rescue party, stranded on a sandbar. He wants to smirk-- it feels so familiar in these clothes-- he supposes that they've been to Tia Dalma too? It does stand to reason, judging from the observation that the dead zombie-pirate has come back and is (hopefully) no longer a zombie.

Barbossa approaches, then that young Turner, and a little farther off, Elizabeth Swann as well. The former has apparently caught sight of the bag at his side and is making vehement gesticulations at it from the dune as the three climb down to meet him. He sees with a strange touch of satifaction that the latter two walk with some degree of distance, that things are not altogether happy for the happy pirate couple. Could he then still hope...?

No. He is the most foolish of fools, but he certainly no longer entertains that notion. He has made his choice and there is nothing left to do but follow it.

"Mister Barbossa." He refuses to call the pirate a captain. He was a captain once, in the Navy, and he would not share ranks with a criminal. Nor will he wish the pirate a good day; the greeting is curt.

"Master Turner. You are looking quite well." _If you take "well" to be synonymous with "underfed", "tanned to peeling", and "weary beyond belief", then yes, Master Turner, you are the very picture of health._

"Miss Swann." Oh, and he hates that he feels his breath catch in his throat, hates that he can still sense his pulse racing, despises himself for everything he's done and everything he's about to do. _But yes, Miss Swann, no matter how many desert islands I find you on, you will ever and always look exquisite._

"Seems like someone's sunk to filching officers' coats now. What a strange sight, commodore." Sneers Barbossa. "The world plays strange tricks on us all. Regardless, you have done us a great favor." His eyes touch the brown sack delicately, hintingly. "You seem to bring the solution to all our, ah... problems."

Norrington would have liked to intervene with something snarky and distinctively waspish at this point, but Will Turner butts in.

"What have you done with the key? Is it safe?"

He rolls his eyes again. "Oh, it's safe. Very safe, Master Turner, safer than you would ever believe."

Elizabeth steps closer to him, hestitates for a moment, and then smiles and throws her arms around his neck. Norrington can barely breathe and it has nothing to do with how tightly she's holding him.

"I'm so glad you're alright! We'd all thought you'd been killed, or drowned, or that those fishmen had gotten you."

"Aye," intejects Barbossa sulkily. "I had my money on the fishmen."

Will is getting frustrated. "But what about the key? Where is it? Do you have it?"

Elizabeth has not yet let go. Norrington is finding it extraordinarily difficult to speak and can't help but take delight at the sour expression spreading over Turner's face. A bitterness creeps into him, knowing that the embrace won't last and that she's probably only drawing it out to irk Turner. Never for himself, not solely for his reaction and his alone.

"No, I do not." He says and she releases him, as expected. "It is not in my possession, though I am keenly aware of exactly where it is."

Barbossa can't take the suspense any more. "But that doesn't matter compared with what's in the bag, am I right?"

He shrugs. "That is for you to decide, I suppose." Sensing that he's about to be barraged with questions, he continues before they have the chance to ask. He'd rather not explain everything to them together. "I would feign speak with Miss Swann alone."

_Ah yes, Master Turner, don't think that I didn't take great pleasure in that disapproving glare of yours. I hold the strings now and I intend to play to my rules. In future, I doubt our paths will across again and, for that, I am grateful. The best of luck to you._

Norrington begins to walk away from the gathered company, towards a forest grove. It is secluded, not terribly shady, but provides for basic privacy without infringing too much on propriety. He stiffles a laugh. Thinking about the concerns of propriety at a time like this! In the end, he really hasn't changed much. Not much at all. He grows somber again.

The bag seems to weigh heavier and he knows it's getting late.

He sees her departing after him, furrowed crease pressed on her brow, the red of the oncoming sunset eating away at the edges of her fraying dress. If there was any memory of Elizabeth Swann he held dear, most prized, more cherished above all else, above seeing her at the Governor's annual balls, above returning weary to port and glimpsing her as a child waiting at the harbor, above proposing to her (many things actually were fonder to him than this particular recollection), it was this moment when she crested the hill and met him there, perfect, made immaculate by the setting sun, that he would keep in his mind always, for however long always might be.

A moment passes as he stands there staring back at her, engraving every detail into his memory, and then, with a slight cough to cover his silence, he turns and leads her into the grove.

A line of approaching clouds mars the brilliance of the sky. And the storm smiles.

The game's begun.


	3. So Dark the Night

_This shouldn't be how it feels. His sole desire was freedom and now he's only ended up trapped further, like a caught bird that only ensnares itself more with its struggling. Was it so hopeless for him, then, doomed to be one more sacrificial pawn in their greater game? And what matter that it was out of love? Some part of himself still thirsts for the old days, for adventure on the prow of a battleship and unrequited love._

_But times change. Situations change._

_Each direction he moves cuts his skin to ribbons, suspended swords surround him, deadly, exacting their toll from him each time he brushes against the limits of their territory._

_He's got to move._

_It's going to kill him one of these days, but he must._

_The scariest thing, though, isn't what might happen or what will, but how, in the true mirror of the cage blades, he no longer can recognize himself._

**-----------------------------**

**II. So Dark the Night**

**-----------------------------**

Elizabeth Swann gave him a funny look. 

The man she knew as Commodore James Norrington stared out at the blue expanse tinged with the rays of sunset beyond the island, saying nothing. This was not very helpful when one was trying to find a ship to sail off from to rescue a pirate whom one had (accidentally!) sent to his death, so Elizabeth deemed it necessary to both her own sanity and his that she intervene.

"Commodore?

_if he could only assure himself that everything's done, already set in stone...but why must it fail to bring any consoling anesthetic for his frettings and numb his objections into cold submission?_

He started at the sound of her voice, jolted from whatever contemplation he had been absorbed in. Elizabeth Swann was rather good at doing that.

"Ah, yes, Miss Swann."

"You said earlier that there was something you wished to speak to me in private about?"

Straightening, Norrington steeled himself for the speech he had practiced and steadied his voice and mind for the ruse. There would be no vacillation from this point onward.

_there must not _

To fail here was to cast everything into forfeit. It would be as though he had not acted at all. And that was unacceptable.

"You recall the incident when we saw each other last, I presume?" He cursed himself for his immediate return to the safeties of courtly speech. As far as Elizabeth Swann was concerned, James Norrington was a pirate, a has-been of a high-ranking naval officer who chose to drown out his evenings of dancing and waltzes in taverns with rum and hard liquor. He had to drop the pretense and start acting pirate.

"Of course." She replied. A beat. "You know where the heart is."

Well, she certainly hadn't taken her time figuring it out.

"I suppose I might."

Shrugging and taking a seat, he leaned back and once more gaged the position of the sun.

"Then again, I might not."

A grin had crept up on Miss Swann's lips and she was wasting no effort trying to restrain it in vain. Elizabeth enjoyed this kind of game: she was already at work charting out her next moves pending her acquisition of Davy Jones' heart. Norrington had brought just enough incentive for her brain to snap into motion and, tantalized by the prospect, she refused to let go off the idea.

Instead, she joined him in sitting.

"Why else would you have come but to pass on his heart?" She turned to him exuberantly. "Tell me how you made it back here. It's been ages since you left us with it. I'm guessing it'll be a grand tale. Wherever did you go? Why did you take so long in coming back? We've been waiting here forever, it seems, and the food is horrible..." She grimaced and then laughed. "I suppose I must sound like the girl you escorted at sea all those years back, perennially begging you to tell me about pirates."

Norrington smiled at the memory. Something bitter was starting to creep up in his stomach: unease--or just sorrow? He'd made his choice; why must he waver?

"Not so very different, Miss Swann."

"So?" She shifted forward onto her knees, at full attention.

There was a time when he would have given anything for her to regard him like that. Now she was thus regarding him, and he finally felt that perhaps, just perhaps he had at last made something of a fair trade after all. The strange sensation in his gut gradually ebbed its way away.

"You are quite correct, as per usual." Damn his infernal tongue and its ghastly Latin! It refused to cooperate, instead lapsing back into formal tones which would surely alert her to something, either that he wasn't the pirate that he seemed or that the heart he brought was not genuine. And he must not have that.

_because it was the most genuine thing he had _

"I've got the heart in my possession but I don't intend on giving it up unless several very specific conditions are met."

He waited uncomfortably for her answer, but received nothing instantly.

After a while came:

"Very well." Said with all the steel of a pirate captain. Her eyes had lost the warmth that had flickered and kindled in them before; her stance was cold. This was bargaining and the both of them were well-versed in it after their mutual dealings with one Lord Cutler Beckett. "Let me hear these conditions of yours, then."

Norrington took a deep breath. He knew (how long had he known?) that he couldn't got through with it if he looked at her. It was too much. Therefore, he turned his head to the shore with its high tide crawling back in, face bathed in the aftermath of a fiery sunset. When he spoke it was slow and deliberate, the well-orchestrated and emotionless tenor that one might employ when voicing a will.

"First, that the heart I give you be the sole possession of no one but yourself, with no exceptions. If it is to be given freely, it must be yours and yours alone."

_it has always been yours and yours alone _

"Second, what occurs involving the heart will remain your decision, regardless of what the others say or tell you to do. Last," he swallowed and tore his eyes away from the ocean, meeting her gaze with a feverish intensity, "under all circumstances, come what may..."

This was so pitifully hard to do. He cursed himself for his weakness, chided himself for not being able to finish, reminded himself of the time, worried, wondered, hoped and--

He smiled, a smile that caught Elizabeth Swann's breath in her throat and could have won her had it come at some other time, some other circumstance, in some other world... How close he'd been, he sighed, how close he'd walked the line between having all he wanted and having nothing.

_And how, after all this time, had he fallen._

All the memories flooded back: escorting her on the _Dauntless_, rescuing her when she feel overboard, that shot he'd heard as a boy, knowing what it was too well, pirate chasing, catching a glimpse of her smile across the room at one of the governor's balls, courtship, watching her plummet down the barracks, and everything after. He had been close; their lives had come so close to one another, but, in the end, it had all come to naught.

Yet, it was enough for him to smile as he said the last words, whisper thin:

"...have a wonderful life, Miss Swann."

Her brow furrowed, confused, but she seemed to understand the gravity of the statement and nodded, saying or mouthing, "I will."

Perhaps the Navy was after him, perhaps they knew he had the heart and he would be in trouble for giving back to a group of ragtag pirates. Perhaps he'd need to flee before they caught up with him, she reasoned. All of which were very good reasons, though none of them true.

Yet, he was content.

Grabbing the drawstring bag that had been attached to his side, he lifted it gingerly and presented it to her. Elizabeth received it hesitatingly, eyes darting back and forth between him and the satchel. Instantly, chill racked his chest.

_how quick the witch's magic acts... _

"Don't open it now, best to save the surprise for when you get back to the shore."

He noted affably, beginning to feel cool fingers caressing his sides and torso and suppressing a shiver.

"The heart of Davy Jones..." Elizabeth mused, fixated on the object in the bag. "You went through so much trouble to get this for us. I can't begin to thank--"

Norrington shook his head. His fingers and hands felt awash with ice, like a dull frost was slowly inching and prickling its way up them. His throat, he considered, probably wouldn't last long enough for any drawn out conversations. Waving off the compliment, he continued while he still could:

"You ought to go, Miss Swann. One's fiance rarely appreciates his betrothed having engrossing chats with unmarried men for prolonged periods of time."

"But what of you...?" An idea. "You could come with us!"

"I feel...weary. I'll be along sortly."

Thus she left and his eyes followed her all the way. Her back turned and a gust caught her hair up and played with it, spreading it out like a triumphant banner as she returned with her treasure to her comrades. Then, she was gone.

His eyelids drooped shut, calm now that the storm had passed. It was finally, blessedly over. In a voice that was little more than an exhalation of breath, he murmured:

"Fare thee well, my dear Elizabeth."

And with that, James Norrington at last softly slumped down onto the sand, just in time to see the tip of the pink sun sink under the curve of the ocean.

**----**

"Well, looks like yeh finally did something worthwhile, Miss Swann." Barbossa crowed merrily as Elizabeth approached the group again, this time with the mysterious bag in tow. "Now let's see what the ole commodore's been keeping from us..."

Elizabeth snatched the bag away just as he went to grab it. "I happen to think that a lot of the things I do are worthwhile, captain," she stated smugly, "and I'm in no mood to ruin the surprise by opening it right away."

Will would have none of this. He was sick of waiting on this god-forsaken island for help to come, sick of having to put up with pirates' chatter, sick of hoping that a chance would finally come for them to be rid of this dull, adventureless existence...and now that there was a way out, and that someone was withholding it from him, even if that person was his fiancee--well, things were still not looking very good.

"Oh, for God's sake, Elizabeth!" He cried. "Stop being so pert and just open the thrice damned thing!"

All was silent as the realization set in that at last, after two long, grueling weeks, one of their own had finally snapped...

Elizabeth, for her part, pouted and tugged on the drawstrings. What the crew saw wasn't really much of a surprise--everyone had secretly known (or at least fervently hoped) that Norrington had brought them back the heart of Davy Jones-- but they still took the appropriate amount of time to oogle at it as Elizabeth gingerly pulled it, still beating, out of the bag. It was very...moist.

Will's face paled and he took a brief respite to retch loudly in the privacy of some conveniently placed palm trees.

Gibbs snickered. "Looks like Mister Turner needs to relieve himself of his lunch."

Barbossa rolled his eyes. "Aye, accurate, true, but lacking in a certain elegance and discretion. Crass but still, well said, Mister Gibbs."

"Elegance and discretion have never been Mister Gibbs' strong point, if I may say so myself," Ragetti offered.

"Not his metier, if you know what Oi mean." Pintel added.

Ragetti turned. "But wot if they don't know what you mean? Wot if nobody 'ere's ever heard of the word "metier?" In fact," he crossed his arms, "I haven't and I refuse to believe that it's a real one. I think you're just making it up to sound... uppity. Like you know stuff but don't."

"Me? Making up the word "metier?" " Pintel's voice took on a dangerous, gravelly tone. "It comes from French. You're just too stupid to know what it is."

"French! What sort of idiot makes up a word and calls it French? You don't even how to pronounce krake--"

"Silence!"

Barbossa's shout effectively silenced those gathered.

"It doesn't matter what sort of word it is, who made it up, or if it's French or not!" He gestured theatrically to Elizabeth and her possession. "Miss Swann's being holdin' that thing for a good two minutes and all you lummoxes can do is fight with either other about vocabulary! Now, if I'm to be your captain on this voyage, we're going to focus our attention on what _really_ matters and that's the end of that!" He threw in an "arrg" at the end for good measure.

The pirates nodded and shuffled their feet. Barbossa found this acceptable and so faced Elizabeth.

"Now, missy, let's have you summon the _Flying Dutchman_ so she can get us out of here."

Elizabeth gave him a blank look. "Summon...?"

Had face-palms existed back in the early nineteenth century, Barbossa would have done a rather excellent one right there. However, they did not, so he merely gave her an exasperated look and vehemently hand-gestured instead.

"Yes, girl! How else did ye think we'd be getting off this here island? Davy Jones will answer the call of his heart, determined as he is to have it so, and being in possession of it, we'll be able to take over his ship and use it to find Jack. It's the fastest ship in the East India Company's armada, so we'll 'ave no risk of them catching us." He looked rather proud of his plan. "Nothing can go wrong. Provided that you summon the ship, of course..." The pirate captain let his sentence trail off, as the crew waited with eager anticipation.

Biting her lip, Elizabeth considered. She didn't mind handling the heart--it was a little strange, not exactly what she'd pictured it to be, but she supposed that for being the heart of a crusty lobster-man, it was looking pretty good--the summoning thing was bothering her, though. Were there any magic pirate words she was supposed to say? Or maybe...

Inspiration struck.

Holding the heart before her, she strode out toward the sea, the incoming tide lapping at the hem of her dress. She raised her token and, eyes sweeping the horizon for any ship, anything, she let her eyes close and began to sing.

It was song she'd learnt long ago as a little girl, one she'd picked up on a ship she and her father were traveling on, one during which they'd seen the ruins of a merchant ship floating by, and one that Mister Gibbs had said was cursed. The words came easily and at the same time, hauntingly, as they had years hence.

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me..." She whispered the last phrase.

Nothing.

Then, suddenly, a helm shot out of the level waters and three masts burst through the waves in short order right behind it. The ship punched its way to the surface, fighting the algae and clinging kelp that threatened to pull it back down to the depths. As its sails unfurled in the evening wind that had begun to pick up, Elizabeth started to get the feeling that something wasn't the right, no, not quite right...

Apparently, others noticed too.

Gripping her shoulders forcefully, Barbossa had sloshed out into the sea froth after her. "Just what did you do? Tell me exactly what you did, you fool! How could you have ruined our last hope?" In the captain's wake, murmurs rose up from the crew. Elizabeth could only catch bits and pieces of what they were saying amidst Barbossa's tirade.

"...ges look at that..."

"Haven't seen tha', nah, for years--"

"--red sails--"

She broke out of Barbossa's clamp-like grip and headed toward the ship, now resting calmly on the waves, not struggling as it had before. It's sides were fairly free of decay and she could not see anyone on board, or at least, rushing out to meet them. And, just as someone had observed, the sails were crimson red.

Barbossa followed.

"Well, how did you explain this?" She spat at him him, petulant. "I did everything you asked and I ended up with this thing. How does this fit into your perfect plan?"

The captain was silent a moment, and then:

"Give me that heart."

Elizabeth hesitated. Now that everything had gone all wonky, she remembered Norrington's words about not letting anyone have the heart but herself. She'd agreed to it then, thinking that he must have had a reason...

No...

"No."

"What am I going to do with it, I ask you? Chuck it at the ship?" He eyed the pulsing red lump suspiciously. "I just want a look."

Deciding that this was acceptable, she held it out for him to see. Now that she really got a good gander at the thing...it was shocking. She'd at least expected the heart of Davy Jones to have rotted at least a little, maybe a barnacle here or there, you know, to match with its former master. This, though, seemed as normal a heart as any human being might have.

"Ah. I do believe I know the problem."

Elizabeth looked up.

"This isn't the heart of Davy Jones."

"Well, what makes you an expert on these things? Who knows," she cried, tired and exhausted, angry at her wasted effort and the lack of food available, "hearts can be wildly different that what you expect them to be, right? Who's to say it's not his? Who's got any really solid proof for me that what we're looking at isn't the heart of one Davy Jones?"

She was addressing them all now.

"Come on, then, step forward!"

"I do," said Will fervently.

"Oh, really?" Elizabeth drew out the vowels, as though she was terribly delighted to have her statement challenged by her lover. "And what, pray tell, is your evidence, Will?"

Will said nothing, only pointed at the vessel's side.

Inscribed there in faded golden lettering was a single word, the ship's name: _Valor_.

"Ah."

This was not turning out to be the adventure she had planned.

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**:: A/N :: **

Hey everyone! For some reason, I've been on a fic rampage, so it only seemed fair that this one got something too.

I was pretty happy with this. Bit of a long one this time, huh? I was debating about splitting it up into two chapters, but I liked the balance that the two parts have too much to do that. Plus, there are other things I want to get to in the story sooner. (plotting) Besides, I'll be moving to Ohio on Tuesday, so I wanted to leave you guys with something to read as I play Harvest Moon and drive along on the cornfield highway.

As far as things go, it's the intro this time around I'm a little worried about: I used the Eight of Swords theme (self-sacrifice, traps) for inspiration when I wrote it and it sort of seemed to click, so any feedback on that would be awesome. Summer's when I like to improve my writing, so I love any comments/ crits: seriously, I think I won my school's English Medal thanks to all the practice I get over the summer.

And now, onto the reviews! (because Cy's too lazy for the reply button)

**NorryIsUnderMyBed**-- I think I can safely say that that's officially the second time my grammar has made someone happy. Good to know it's appreciated, especially in the Pit. Thanks! It makes updating all the more worthwhile.

**Brokenspar**--Dude, you've had it figured out all along! You have no idea how tempted I've been to do something drastic and change everything just to catch people offguard. Oh well. This is why I write humor, not suspense. (lol) I hope maybe something in upcoming chapters will surprise people, though. Thanks for your awesome reviews! I'll try and work on the next one soon--these first two have been tricky to fit all the plot in.

**HecateTriformis**--Jeez, I didn't even realize that. Wow. Yay for self-betaing. I think this chapter should be a little more coherent in the tense department: thanks for pointing that out!

**MerryKK**--Thanks! I love reading well done foreshadowing, so I try my best to make things come through in my work.

**Dreamflight**--I was a little bit, too. The biggest impression I got was that, basically it was all right, it just needed some revising here and there to fix somethings...as soon as I walked out of the theatre, I went all broody and started plotting what I would have done differently. Consequently, it involved the idea behind this fic, so...here we are!

Thanks again for all the reviews and your encouraging comments! See you in Chapter III.

-- cy.

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